I don’t know how long we stayed there, Charles holding my head and me moaning, but from where I lay Mrs. Sullivan’s light grew more and more insistent until I tried to get up. Charles demanded a hospital visit, which I refused, though parts of my body cursed my attitude. I thought about my storehouse of pills but decided on a hot bath first. Charles helped and, other than a momentary flash of homophobia when he slipped my pants off, we negotiated the change from floor to tub without much additional pain. I asked him to go upstairs and reassure Mrs. Sullivan, and I promised to call if I changed my mind about the emergency room. Despite his tender care, I felt relieved to be alone and up to my chest in hot water. I didn’t want to look at his nightshirt anymore. I was starting to relax when I was hit with another wave of pain. It almost changed my mind about the hospital, but after a few moments the hurt subsided and left me lusting for a cigarette.

I crawled out of the tub and inched into the bedroom where I took the Kools, matches, and ashtray and returned to the bathroom. I needed more soaking so I added hot water, swallowed a couple of pills, and groaned my way back in. My cheeks were still smarting, and the crook between my shoulder and neck felt as if a knife had slit it apart. The blotches on my chest seemed to dance and I wondered whether I could see the bruises turn color. I couldn’t, but wasn’t sure if my blurred vision was brought on by the waves of pain or the overwhelming loneliness I suddenly felt while I lay there doing inventory on my body. I felt like crying.

I was onto my third cigarette, and the tub water was turning cool. I was beginning to become impatient for my chemical white knights when the anger finally hit. It was one thing to be beaten up, another to have the damn thing happen in my home. My fucking home.

I dragged my body from the bath and forced myself to look in the mirror. My cheeks were okay but my eyes looked like Hearns’ after the Hagler fight. They must have broken my nose but I couldn’t remember when. I could breathe, so the hell with it. I didn’t want doctors sticking Q-tips up anything. I went through the torture of pulling on my undershirt before I realized there was nowhere to go and no one to see. It was the middle of the night and I would have to wait until the morning before I could do anything. I stood there too sore to move, but frustrated, and reluctant to go to bed.

I spent the next hours smoking, dozing, and hurting. During the moments of awareness, images from the afternoon and night flashed across my throbbing eyes until I began to wonder where the dreams began. For a while I thought I was in a coffin, staring up into the hard, cold eyes of my black visitor and the sadistic face of his bloated friend. I would try to turn my head, and when I couldn’t, look back and gaze at the concerned faces of Simon and Fran. Seeing them was worse, but they refused to leave when I blinked. I almost prayed for the cop’s image to return. When I awoke from that one, I worried about having overdosed.

I hadn’t and, as long as I lay there and remembered that the beating wasn’t a punishment for what I saw in the afternoon, I was okay. More than okay; I was enraged. Two fucking cops had trashed me in my own home and I didn’t even know why.